They both sat staring towards the big brass-bound swing doors that led to the world outside.
Suddenly the doors were pushed open with violence - a violence quite unusual in Bertram's Hotel - and a young man strode in and went straight across to the desk. He wore a black leather jacket. His vitality was such that Bertram's Hotel took on the atmosphere of a museum by way of contrast. The people were the dust-encrusted relics of a past age. He bent towards Miss Gorringe.
"Is Lady Sedgwick staying here?" he asked.
Miss Gorringe on this occasion had no welcoming smile. Her eyes were flinty.
"Yes," she said. Then, with definite unwillingness, she stretched out her hand towards the telephone. "Do you want to -?"
"No," said the young man. "I just wanted to leave a note for her."
He produced it from a pocket of his leather coat and slid it across the mahogany counter.
"I only wanted to be sure this was the right hotel." There might have been some slight incredulity in his voice as he looked round him, then turned back towards the entrance. His eyes passed indifferently over the people sitting round him. They passed over Luscombe and Elvira in the same way, and Luscombe felt a sudden unsuspected anger. Dammit all, he thought to himself, Elvira's a pretty girl. When I was a young chap I'd have noticed a pretty girl, especially among all these fossils. But the young man seemed to have no interested eyes to spare for pretty girls. He turned back to the desk and asked, raising his voice slightly as though to call Miss Gorringe's attention:
"What's the telephone number here - 1129, isn't it?"
"No," said Miss Gorringe, "3925."
"Regent?"
"No. Mayfair."
He nodded. Then swiftly he strode across to the door and passed out, swinging the doors to behind him with something of the same explosive quality he had shown on entering.
Everybody seemed to draw a deep breath; to find difficulty in resuming their interrupted conversations.
"Well," said Colonel Luscombe, rather inadequately, as if at a loss for words. "Well, really! These young fellows nowadays."
Elvira was smiling.
"You recognized him, didn't you?" she said. "You know who he is?" She spoke in a slightly awed voice. She proceeded to enlighten him. "Ladislaus Malinowski."
"Oh, that chap." The name was indeed faintly familiar to Colonel Luscombe. "Racing driver."
"Yes. He was world champion two years running. He had a bad crash a year ago. Broke lots of things. But I believe he's driving again now." She raised her head to listen. "That's a racing car he's driving now."
The roar of the engine had penetrated through to Bertram's Hotel from the street outside. Colonel Luscombe perceived that Ladislaus Malinowski was one of Elvira's heroes. Well, he thought to himself, better that than one of those pop singers or crooners or long-haired Beatles or whatever they called themselves. Luscombe was old-fashioned in his views of young men.
The swing doors opened again. Both Elvira and Colonel Luscombe looked at them expectantly but Bertram's Hotel had reverted to normal. It was merely a white-haired elderly cleric who came in. He stood for a moment looking round him with a slightly puzzled air as of one who fails to understand where he was or how he had come there. Such an experience was no novelty to Canon Pennyfather. It came to him in trains when he did not remember where he had come from, where he was going, or why! It came to him when he was walking along the street, it came to him when he found himself sitting on a committee. It had come to him before now when he was in his cathedral stall, and did not know whether he had already preached his sermon or was about to do so.
"I believe I know that old boy," said Luscombe, peering at him. "Who is he now? Stays here fairly often, I believe. Abercrombie? Archdeacon Abercrombie - no, it's not Abercrombie, though he's rather like Abercrombie."
Elvira glanced round at Canon Pennyfather without interest. Compared with a racing driver he had no appeal at all. She was not interested in ecclesiastics of any kind although, since being in Italy, she admitted to a mild admiration for cardinals whom she considered as at any rate properly picturesque.
Canon Pennyfather's face cleared and he nodded his head appreciatively. He had recognized where he was. In Bertram's Hotel, of course; where he was going to spend the night on his way to - now where was he on his way to? Chadminster? No, no, he had just come from Chadminster. He was going to - of course - to the Congress at Lucerne. He stepped forward, beaming, to the reception desk and was greeted warmly by Miss Gorringe.
"So glad to see you, Canon Pennyfather. How well you are looking."
"Thank you - thank you - I had a severe cold last week but I've got over it now. You have a room for me. I did write?"
Miss Gorringe reassured him.
"Oh yes, Canon Pennyfather, we got your letter. We've reserved No. Nineteen for you, the room you had last time."
"Thank you - thank you. For - let me see - I shall want it for four days. Actually I am going to Lucerne and shall be away for one night, but please keep the room. I shall leave most of my things here and only take a small bag to Switzerland. There won't be any difficulty over that?"
Again Miss Gorringe reassured him. "Everything's going to be quite all right. You explained very clearly in your letter."
Other people might not have used the word "clearly." "Fully" would have been better, since he had certainly written at length.
All anxieties set at rest, Canon Pennyfather breathed a sigh of relief and was conveyed, together with his baggage, to Room 19.
In Room 28 Mrs Carpenter had removed her crown of violets from her head and was carefully adjusting her night-dress on the pillow of her bed. She looked up as Elvira entered.
"Ah, there you are, my dear. Would you like me to help you with your unpacking?"
"No, thank you," said Elvira politely. "I shan't unpack very much, you know."
"Which of the bedrooms would you like to have? The bathroom is between them. I told them to put your luggage in the far one. I thought this room might be a little noisy."
"That was very kind of you," said Elvira in her expressionless voice.
"You're sure you wouldn't like me to help you?"
"No, thanks, really I wouldn't. I think I might perhaps have a bath."
"Yes, I think that's a very good idea. Would you like to have the first bath? I'd rather finish putting my things away."
Elvira nodded. She went into the adjoining bathroom, shut the door behind her and pushed the bolts across. She went into her own room, opened her suitcase and flung a few things on the bed. Then she undressed, put on a dressing gown, went into the bathroom and turned the taps on. She went back into her own room and sat down on the bed by the telephone. She listened a moment or two in case of interruptions, then lifted the receiver.
"This is Room Twenty-nine. Can you give me Regent 1129, please?"
Chapter 4
Within the confines of Scotland Yard a conference was in progress. It was by way of being an informal conference. Six or seven men were sitting easily around a table and each of those six men was a man of some importance in his own line. The subject that occupied the attention of these guardians of the law was a subject that had grown terrifically in importance during the last two or three years. It concerned a branch of crime whose success had been overwhelmingly disquieting. Robbery on a big scale was increasing. Bank holdups, snatches of payrolls, thefts of consignments of jewels sent through the mail, train robberies. Hardly a month passed but some daring and stupendous coup was attempted and brought off successfully.
Sir Ronald Graves, Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard, was presiding at the head of the table. According to his usual custom he did more listening than talking. No formal reports were being presented on this occasion. All that belonged to the ordinary routine of C.I.D. work. This was a high-level consultation, a general pooling of ideas between men looking at affairs from slightly different points of view. Sir Ronald Graves's eyes went slowly round his little group, then he nodded his head to a man at the end of the table.
"Well, Father," he said, "let's hear a few homely wisecracks from you."
The man addressed as "Father" was Chief Inspector Fred Davy. His retirement lay not long ahead and he appeared to be even more elderly than he was. Hence his nickname of Father. He had a comfortable spreading presence, and such a benign and kindly manner that many criminals had been disagreeably surprised to find him a less genial and gullible man than he had seemed to be.
"Yes, Father, let's hear your views," said another Chief Inspector.
"It's big," said Chief Inspector Davy with a deep sigh. "Yes, it's big. Maybe it's growing."
"When you say big, do you mean numerically?"
"Yes, I do."
Another man, Comstock, with a sharp, foxy face and alert eyes, broke in to say:
"Would you say that was an advantage to them?"
"Yes and no," said Father. "It could be a disaster. But so far, devil take it, they've got it all well under control."
Superintendent Andrews, a fair, slight, dreamy-looking man, said thoughtfully:
"I've always thought there's a lot more to size than people realize. Take a little one-man business. If that's well-run and if it's the right size, it's a sure and certain winner. Branch out, make it bigger, increase personnel, and perhaps you'll get it suddenly to the wrong size and down the hill it goes. The same way with a great big chain of stores. An empire in industry. If that's big enough it will succeed. If it's not big enough it just won't manage it. Everything has got its right size. When it is its right size and well-run it's the tops."
"How big do you think this show is?" Sir Ronald barked.
"Bigger than we thought at first," said Comstock.
A tough-looking man, Inspector McNeill, said, "It's growing, I'd say. Father's right. Growing all the time."
"That may be a good thing," said Davy. "It may grow a bit too fast, and then it'll get out of hand."
"The question is, Sir Ronald," said McNeill, "who we pull in and when?"
"There's a round dozen or so we could pull in," said Comstock. "The Harris lot are mixed up in it, we know that. There's a nice little pocket down Luton way. There's a garage at Epsom, there's a pub near Maidenhead, and there's a farm on the Great North Road."
"Any of them worth pulling in?"
"I don't think so. Small fry all of them. Links. Just links here and there in the chain. A spot where cars are converted and turned over quickly; a respectable pub where messages get passed; a secondhand clothes shop where appearance can be altered, a theatrical costumer in the East End, also very useful. They're paid, these people. Quite well-paid but they don't really know anything!"
The dreamy Superintendent Andrews said again, "We're up against some good brains. We haven't got near them yet. We know some of their affiliations and that's all. As I say, the Harris crowd are in it and Marks is in on the financial end. The foreign contacts are in touch with Weber but he's only an agent. We've nothing actually on any of these people. We know that they all have ways of maintaining contact with each other, and with the different branches of the concern, but we don't know exactly how they do it. We watch them and follow them, and they know we're watching them. Somewhere there's a great central exchange. What we want to get at is the planners."
"It's like a giant network," Comstock said. "I agree that there must be an operational headquarters somewhere. A place where each operation is planned and detailed and dovetailed completely. Somewhere, someone plots it all, and produces a working blueprint of Operation Mailbag or Operation Payroll. Those are the people we're out to get."
"Possibly they are not even in this country," said Father quietly.
"No, I dare say that's true. Perhaps they're in an igloo somewhere, or in a tent in Morocco or in a chalet in Switzerland."
"I don't believe in these masterminds," said McNeill shaking his head. "They sound all right in a story. There's got to be a head, of course, but I don't believe in a master criminal. I'd say there was a very clever little board of directors behind this. Centrally planned, with a chairman. They've got on to something good, and they're improving their technique all the time. All the same -"
"Yes?" said Sir Ronald encouragingly.
"Even in a right tight little team, there are probably expendables. What I call the Russian sledge principle. From time to time, if they think we might be getting hot on the scent, they throw off one of them, the one they think they can best afford."
"Would they dare to do that? Wouldn't it be rather risky?"
"I'd say it could be done in such a way that whoever it was wouldn't even know he had been pushed off the sledge. He'd just think he'd fallen off. He'd keep quiet because he'd think it was worth his while to keep quiet. So it would be, of course. They've got plenty of money to play with, and they can afford to be generous. Family looked after, if he's got one, while he's in prison. Possibly an escape engineered."
"There's been too much of that," said Comstock.
"I think, you know," said Sir Ronald, "that it's not much good going over and over our speculations again. We always say much the same thing."
McNeill laughed.
"What is it you really wanted us for, sir?"
"Well -" Sir Ronald thought a moment, "we're all agreed on the main things," he said slowly. "We're agreed on our main policy, what we're trying to do. I think it might be profitable to have a look around for some of the small things, the things that don't matter much, that are just a bit out of the usual run. It's hard to explain what I mean, but like that business some years ago in the Culver case. An ink stain. Do you remember? An ink stain round a mousehole. Now why on earth should a man empty a bottle of ink into a mousehole? It didn't seem important. It was hard to get at the answer. But when we did hit on the answer, it led somewhere. That's - roughly - the sort of thing I was thinking about. Odd things. Don't mind saying if you come across something that strikes you as a bit out of the usual. Petty if you like, but irritating, because it doesn't quite fit in. I see Father's nodding his head."
